Such a Newsie
by Johannas mirror
Summary: Emma is a girl of some mystery, little tact and a grand capacity for stupidity. She's also falling in love. Chapters 1-3 have been edited, everything else is under slow, painful construction. I have not forgotten this story. (Kid Blink x OC, Spot Conlon with a hint of OC)
1. In which Mush is not polite

I've just refurbished this chapter (again). They just get shorter and shorter.

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"C'mon, Emma! What's a lovely lady like youse need wid' a cigar?" Racetrack wheedled. The girl opposite him was short, compact and heavily freckled.

"I'm a newsgirl, not a lady. Anyway 'syour own fault you don't got enough money to buy your own. And anyway," she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes, suggestively. "You don't think I'm half as pretty as Daaavie."

"Tragically, it's true." He dodged her sharp elbow and pulled an accusing face.

"Tightwad."

Emma swung round the railing and up the staircase to boy's room on the top floor. Girls' bunks were on the bottom floor, though most opted for alternant living space, if they could afford it. Emma couldn't. And besides, this week, waking the newsboys was her special privilege. (1)

"Why aren't you awake, yet?" She demanded, poking one boy in the ribs and tugging on another's ear. She made her rounds about the room, slapping and jostling the boys from sleep.

"_Mercy_, Jack, put on a _shirt_," she cried. He rubbed his eyes, mumbling.

"Mmm…Y'love it…" He rolled to his other side, pillow over his head.

"You're disgusting," Emma told him. She ducked, but he was quicker, and she retreated, rubbing her shoulder. Stopping at the far corner, she rested her elbows on one of the counters.

"Patch was on the left eye yesterday, Blink," she said.

"It was, wasn'it?" he mused, switching it.

"A little higher," she gestured with one hand, her other grabbing his hat from the wall peg where it dangled.

"That's better," she said, and wrinkled her nose, approvingly, before continuing her chore.

Emma took great satisfaction in being as awful as possible. Her tactics were simple and effective: all she had to do was make them angry, and they'd make enough noise to raise the dead.

Unsatisfied by the current progress, Emma pulled out the proverbial brass knuckles.

"Late night last night, huh, fellas. That's a shame. Maybe if I sang you a little son—" She was interrupted by curses and moans from around the room. She beamed, her musical talents were infamous.

"Come on, get the lead outta your pants. You've gotta wake up and sell your soul to Hurst for enough money for food, again, just like every— Ouch!" A cigar box had clipped her shoulder.

"I'm just being realis—dammit!" She made for the door, as they began to throw soaps, towels and shoes at her. In her experience their aim improved quickly.

"Don't get your suspenders twisted, I'm leaving—Mush!" She paused, fists on her hips.

"You watch that finger, newsboy. You'res'posed to be one of the nice ones."

Her job done, Emma set her feet towards the distribution center. She was always one of the first newsies there. It paid to be the first with a good headline.

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(1) Courtesy of a bet lost to Crutchy and a direct result of a bet that Crutchy had lost to Kloppman. She should have known better to bet against him.

Thou shoudst review!


	2. In which there is backstory

The backstory is much shorter and slightly less illogical, now. Still no promises on how this is going to end. Or when. But I still swear that I will finish it. I have not forgotten.

(Edit: I'm messing with a timeline, so I've fixed her age a bit.)

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Emma Stynton had grown up in a typical immigrant family. Her parents and sister, Eleanor were three of the thousands of Dutch immigrants to leave their home and country for the hopes of a better life in America. Settling in Brooklyn, they made a home in a crowded tenement houses, and quietly continued their lives. They didn't bother to learn English. In fact, their traditions and rituals were practically unchanged within the large Dutch enclave where they found themselves. The only real alteration had been Emma, who made her unexpected presence known several months after her parents had settled. She was born on August 15, 1883, the same year that the Brooklyn bridge was completed. Her father called her "_de zoet verrassing_." (The sweet surprise)

Though she spoke only Dutch with her family, Emma's education and culture had been markedly American. Her parents worked long days in the factory, and though her sister stayed home, sewing or doing small embroidery projects for commission, she was not a very contentious nanny. Emma spent her early years exploring fire escapes and the neighborhood games of marbles and dice. There, the children spoke in a broken mixture of Dutch and English, so that she could not say which was her first language.

As she grew, she helped her sister keep the house, and delivered Eleanor's finished commissions. Delivering packages was her greatest joy, allowing her to go far and deep into the city some days. She was inquisitive and bold, often stupidly so. Her sister would scold and shame her when she came home with a black eye or torn clothes, but she liked the feel and grit of city, no matter how mean it could be. Her father would shake his head, amused and bewildered by her love for New York, a place he did not, and could not, know.

At eleven, she had a dirty mouth and leather skin from her time spent in the alleys and streets. Eleanor was engaged and her mother and father were making ends meet. The family was happy.

When her father passed away quietly in the winter of her twelfth year, the family was lost. Eleanor was married and had been living with her new husband for several months. Frightened and bereaved, Mrs. Stynton clung to Emma as though a moment's repose would take the rest of her family from her as well. Emma tried to comfort her mother, but slowly, the constant nearness began to stifle her. She missed the streets and the rough crowds. Her mother's health began to decline, and soon the factory made it known that she was no longer needed. At Eleanor's request, Mrs. Stynton moved in with them, but with a baby of her own on the way, Eleanor's small apartment wasn't really big enough for a fifth party, and Emma knew it.

She found a job and an apartment with a group of girls, and by her thirteenth birthday, she was on her own. She knew her mother worried about her, and that her mother's worries burdened her sister with guilt, but she was content. She made enough to buy food. Lodgings were clean, if crowded. The work was mind-numbing and physically demanding, but she could follow her own rules and take care of her own problems.

There, in the midst of the hard labor and crowded nights, she grew into her own mind.

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Review, please.


	3. In which there is a flashback & a ginger

I combined the songfic chapter and the brief little bit about the redhead news assistant, because I think this makes more sense. (Edit: I have also combined it with chapter 3! The transition is a bit rough, but I think it works. It is a little longer, now. However, it is still a sad excuse for a chapter)

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"Fifty papes!" Emma commanded, flipping her two bits expertly onto the ledge. She never paid for her papes without a small sense of accomplishment. Though she had been affiliated with Spot, and the Brooklyn newsies at the time, Emma had been fiercely proud of her part in the strike. She'd felt such power and camaraderie among everyone. That feeling still overwhelmed her dreams. She would wake from these dreams with stars in her eyes, her pulse running hard to keep up with the thrill of that day.

_It wasn't about papers. It wasn't about Weasel or two bits or even Hurst and Pulitzer. It was about taking control of the life that had been thrown at them. It was about freedom. It was about Jack Kelly, a no-good orphan, a dreamer. It was about David and doing right by the newsies. It was about where the power truly lay. _

_The kids she'd met that day. The thin faces, the burns and broken bones and desperation that she had seen enraged her. She had tasted acid and anger. She knew that, any moment, the police might come to break it up, to lay into the crowd with bully clubs, guns, even— to try and beat them into submission. They were newsies, they were sweat-shop kids, they were poor and unlucky and unwanted and at last, for that one growling, riotous moment, they were powerful. If they fought, they fought._

_Emma had found herself itching for that fight. The crowd got to her, made her crazy. No more weakness. She would no longer be a victim. Not this time. These were her brothers and sisters, now. She loved them, and would stand with them. Together, she had thought, they could take on everything that wasn't fair in life. She could win back everything she had lost. Her father. Her faith. This was the way she had always wanted to feel. She found, in that moment of knowing, that she could not go back to Brooklyn. The strike had changed her. She needed to be there, in those streets where she had found a voice. She needed to live where she was constantly reminded of the power of what was right._

A year had passed, but the pride seemed to flare and glimmer like copper each new morning when she hit the front of the line and traded her two bits for fifty identical bundles of paper.

The clerk nodded and relayed the message to his freckled helper. Emma grinned cheekily at the brash, redhead as he slid her papes under the grille. The boy stuck his tongue out at her, and smiled back. These two employees, by general consensus, were a welcome change after Mr. Weasel and his Delancy morons.

Exchanging pointed, vulgar banter with her friends in line and waving to those who shuffled in late, she made her way towards the main street. She lifted a copy, still hot from the press and began to send her voice out, over the crowd, calling attention to the news of the day.

Life was hard but familiar. Emma gave and received beatings, sold her papes, read them and cursed the publisher's stinginess. Sometimes she cried out in her sleep for her father, but Eleanor's baby was cute, even if he didn't remember her every time she went home. There were days when went hungry, or had to beg. She hated that, it dug at her pride. The lodging house and her safe bed there were still a luxury.

Besides, the newsies were good company. Morose, filthy and given to laughter, they had accepted her despite her initial, glowering distrust. The few fights she'd had had been quick and honest. Emma had proven that she was tough enough to hold her own, or at least to make beating her more painful than it was worth.

After all, she had learned from the best in Brooklyn.

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Reviews give the author 5 inspiration points!_  
_


	4. Under less construction than others

(Edit: I'm getting rid of all my earlier commentary, not because it doesn't hold a special place in my heart [I have the original version, commentary and all saved somewhere on google docs] but because it makes the chapter hard to find. Apparently, when I made these, I didn't know about divider bars. *shrugs*) I promise to actually edit the content later. Candide is another character who seems a tad off the charts into Mary Sue land.

Edit number 2: So I've been really involved in the social justice world on tumblr, lately. And it has come to my attention that I used an incredibly offensive ethnic slur ("gypsy") to describe Candide. While it _is_ true that I was ignorant of the damage this word might have caused, that's no effing excuse. I've gone through and changed it, along with some other characteristics about her that fed into the general (and offensive) stereotype that surround Roma/Romani peoples. If you're interested in learning more, check out golden-zephyr(dot)tumblr(dot)com/views. She has changed my world, I hope she can change yours.

On another note, this particular chapter is nowhere near done being edited. I just wanted to take out the offensive, bigoted language that I used.

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"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Pulitzer's favorite snack revealed; Rattails!" Emma yelled, her strong voice snaking through the crowd of sensible people who passed her bye, catching the attention of three of four dim looking men.

"Thank you, Thank you sir!"

Emma tipped Blink's cap, respectfully.

"Pulled that headline out of thin air, didn't ya, water rat?" said a familiar Harlem accent. Emma turned to see a short girl with dark skin and long black hair that hung loose and messy around her shoulders.

"Candide!" Emma said. "It's your muse, worthless thing's been following me around! Next thing I know, it'll be demanding I split my take with it!"

"My muse," Candide said, loftily. "Would never stoop to your level!"

"No, you're right," Emma sighed. "It'd demand _all _of my money!" The two girls laughed together, too happy to see each other to bother noticing how bad their jokes were.

Candide was a sometimes-newsie. She sold papes one day, and the next she'd help out around Medda's theater. She even shined the occasional shoe.

"I get restless doing the same thing for too long," she had explained once to Emma.

"Busy?" Candide asked, gesturing towards the shops whose menus were posted in chalk on the little slate boards hanging from the windows. Emma glanced down at the few newspapers she had left.

"Not if you're paying," she decided.

"Done!" Candide agreed, leading her companion into the closest shop.

"Made some easy money, then?" Emma asked.

"One of these days," Candide said, shaking her head, "they'll learn not to play drinking games with me."

"The same day," Emma agreed, "that they catch the bartender watering down your shots!".

Candide, in addition to doing everything, knew everything. Emma had known the shrewd girl for a little over a year, and still couldn't figure out quite how she did it.

Emma's suspicions lead her to believe that Candide had assembled an army of squirrel spies who were unwaveringly loyal to her. After learning their complicated language of squeaks and tail-waves, Candide had spread them across the whole of New York. They reported to her constantly, telling the girl what the unsuspecting people of the city had not thought to hide from a passing squirrel.

Unfortunately, Emma had very limited luck in convincing anyone of this truth, only Blink had seen the truth of her words, and kept away from the passing squirrels. Her theories were generally dismissed as being a little, well, nutty. And so the lodging house continued to speculate and weave their tangled theories.

You could call Candide an interfering busybody, Emma supposed, but then, she'd probably hear about it. So you didn't, because she knew your secrets.

"So what's the news?" Emma asked, once her food had arrived.

"Well, Scamp and Mush are quits. You could hear the screaming half a block away, but neither one of em looks beat on or dammaged."

Swallowing a large bite, Emma nodded. "That would explain his trigger finger this morning, he's usually a _happy_ newsie…"

Candide nodded.

"Cowboy Jack is still head over heels for Sarah." Candide made a face, prompting Emma to chime in with; "More's the pity!" before scarfing down a roll.

"And I suspect" Candide paused, clearly of the opinion that her suspicions were more factual then most coppers police reports. "I suspect, that Davey's sweet on someone. I think it's one of the lodging boys but I can't figure out which one." Her face darkened for a moment at this intolerable injustice.

"Set your squirrels on him." Emma muttered around a large bite of her sandwich, which muffled her words.

"Hmmm?" she asked, absently, still wrapped up in her little mystery.

"Nothing" Emma covered. "Go on."

"Kid Blink" she listed, ticking off names on her fingers "is…" she grinned wickedly "Well, he's Blink." She said simply. Emma waggled her eyebrows, amused. Blink's romantic nature hardly needed to be deciphered.

"Any news from old man Brooklyn?" Emma wondered.

"Conlon hasn't changed in the _least_!" Candide huffed, "The idiot can't even function, he's so busy looking tough and being in charge. Ugh."

Emma smiled conspiratorially to her sandwich.

As Candide continued with the long list of intrigues, romances, catastrophes, and other vital information, Emma devoured the sandwich, three rolls, a tall glass of lemonade, and a plate heaped full of potato wedges.

When the news and food had been thoroughly exhausted, the two affectionately parted ways. Candide was off to Brooklyn in an attempt, or so Emma thought, to draft the pidgins for her gossip collecting army. Emma made her way towards the bank, where the wealthy businessmen would soon make a profitable exodus from the building and towards the shops as lunchtime descended.


	5. Also under construction

I'm doing spring (ah, winter?) cleaning.

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"Thank you, sir!" Emma chirped, handing her last paper to the portly gentlemen with a kindly looking face and very ugly hat. As he waddled away with his newspaper under one arm, Emma stretched her arms lazily above her head. She was pleased, having finished ahead of schedule. Though she loved to read the news, Emma didn't bother saving her last paper. Some Newsie was bound to come home with an extra copy they didn't want, and Emma could take theirs.

Taking a look around her, the newsie was about to head back to her room at the Lodging House for a quick snooze, when an unwanted voice accosted her ears.

"Emma?" the good mood she had been basking in evaporated upon hearing the voice that rose from the crowd.

_Not Davey_ she thought, wincing. The boy on his own was alright she supposed. A great deal better then he had previously been, anyhow. Emma had to give Jack credit on this one, the cowboy had done wonders.

And she really liked Les. The little tyke was growing into quite a newsie. His plucky courage made him quite a favorite all around, and he sold well. He'd even become quite good at the cheeky, sometimes brash, banter that the newsboys were so well known for, much to Sarah's chagrin.

Sarah. There was the problem, the reason that David's voice made her flinch, and strike fear deep into the Brooklyn-born Newsie's heart. Logically, Emma _knew_ that Sarah was trying to be nice. She did try to be patient with the doily-making burden on society. In all honesty, though, Emma couldn't stand the proper young lady that Sarah strove to be.

"Yeah?" was all she said, blinking away the dark thoughts that Sarah's name brought flocking to her mind.

"Sarah wants to know if you'd like to join us for dinner tonight." David asked, politely.

Of all the diabolical, evil, masterminded plans! Emma couldn't possibly discard this opportunity for a home-cooked meal, particularly Mrs. Jacobs' cooking. She was fairly sure that Sarah knew this fact and was using it against her, making the whole plot devastatingly dastardly. She couldn't go. Not with Sarah there. And yet, how could she deny the wonderful food that would be there. As she wrestled with this dilemma, David shuffled awkwardly on his feet, scuffing at the dusty street.

"And—well—"He stuttered, drawing her from the deep inner turmoil she was trying to sort through.

"Spit it out, Davy, You are the walkin' mouth." She coaxed, interested now that he appeared so uncomfortable.

"Les wants me to tell you—"he paused again looking at her apologetically before plunging ahead, quickly. "That Sarah told him you were a lost soul, and that we should all try to—" now he just looked tired of the whole affair, but had the decency to finger quote the rest "'Lift you from the mire and sin of immodesty.'"

Emma laughed, surprised, and handed the little genius a penny. "Give that to Les, wouldja? I bet him she'd be too well mannered to say anything about it." She pondered this for a moment.

"Perhaps there's hope for Sarah's inner Newsie after all. Tell your mom to set an extra place, Davey, I'll be there." She decided. David nodded, looking as if the entire situation was out of his hands.

"Well, go on!" Emma admonished "You're not selling me anything" she pointed, meaningfully at the small stack of papers the boy had left to sell. Davey nodded, lifted them to his shoulder, and began to walk. He turned about fifty feet away, yelling;

"Oh! Hey, Blink's lookin' for that cap!" He smiled at the devious grin on Emma's mischievous face before continuing on his way.

Pulling the hat firmly down over her head, Emma considered all the fun she would have keeping it away from Kid Blink. Though he was taller then her, Emma had a way of climbing statues and light-poles that made her an exceptional Keep-away player. Oh yes, Blink would be lucky to get his hat back before Racetrack won a bet at Sheep's Head races, a monthly triumph for the obsessed gambler.

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Please review?


	6. In which there is futher construction

*Hums a tune as she cleans up the commentary, purposefully avoiding the freaking immense amount of editing that actually heeds to be done*

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During the year or so that Emma had been adopted— however roughly— By Brooklyn's tough and edgy Water Rats, Spot had grown on her. Though Emma was a firm and rabid foe of the "all things mushy" movement, she was forced to admit— grudgingly and under her breath—that Spot was the closest thing to a brother she was ever likely to have.

Spot had been her teacher, the most annoying person she'd known in all of her life, and even a sort of friend to her. It has been said— though softly, and far away from Brooklyn's volatile monarch— that, in Emma, Spot had met his match in sheer, block-headed, stubbornness. Emma's wry wit and Spot's narcissistic boasting clashed magnificently in even the most mundane of daily tasks. Whatever the conflict, the two oppositional newsies bickered and battered their way into a twisted, roughly sibling affection; vicious, argumentative siblings.

Trust was something Emma gave sparingly, and Spot, if he could help it, not at all. It became apparent, though, that if Emma were to trust _anyone_ with a secret, it would probably be Spot. Similarly, if Spot never actually told anyone _anything_, Emma was likely to have figured it out anyway. (Though, notably, it was never quite established if this was infuriating or endearing to Spot's psyche. I suspect it was a rather confusing combination of the two.)

Emma placed the small, but memorable, event as having occurred just before all the excitement of the strike. Compared to the shimmering glory of that memory, it glowed warmly in Emma's small cache of uniquely important moments. She had grown into her newsie persona, settling nicely into her roll; carryin' that banner. She'd found herself sullenly admitting to herself the vague fondness she had for Brooklyn's Water Rats. She was settling in. If she had paused to examine that fact, Emma would have found that it mildly irritated her.

It had been an inoffensive evening, nearly dusk, after a sparring match, with Spot himself. They stood now, nursing their bruises, leaning against the railings of the Brooklyn Bridge. Neither was talking, or even doing, just standing there, watching the day end. Emma was letting her thoughts dance, feather-soft, over the dirty water, while Spot wore an unreadable, thoughtful, look.

It was he who broke the silence, his voice neither demanding, nor humorous, but solemn.

"Why were you cryin' that night, Emma?"

The question was long in coming, Emma knew, had known, one she had evaded and shrugged away. Only this time, she noted, he expected an answer. He had used her name. Besides, she owed it to him. He had taught her so much, shown her how to fight. Emma found herself pausing, seriously, considering how to best explain that night, those tears.

"Because I couldn't fight, Conlon." She finally allowed, looking him somberly in the eye. "Because I ran away from someone who should've been dumped, lifeless into the bay." She paused, a moment before admitting, honestly, "Because I was scared."

Emma turned her face back to the water, as he nodded, slowly, fingering the darkening bruise on his jaw where Emma'd landed a rough hit during the sparring.

Emma's own bruises were beginning to turn a deep, ugly colors from the absolute trouncing she'd received from him, but she was proud of how well she'd faired against the boy. This "legend" that every Brooklyn newsie with a brain respected. A respect, Emma was beginning to understand, that he deserved.

"Spot?" she said, quietly.

"Ynn?" he acknowledged, absently.

"Thanks."

"Yeah." There was a pause before he clarified.

"Just don't mention it. To any one. Ever."

A taunting smirk slipped it's way onto Emma's waiting mouth. "You're just mad 'cause I won the fight." she proclaimed, grandly, turning Spot's own advice against him and lying through her teeth.

The incredulous, offended look on Spot's face kept her laughing all the way back from the bridge.

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Reviews are like happy pills.


	7. Still more construction underway

(Continues to get rid of stuff and edit)

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Emma arrived at the Jacobs' "cozy" home exactly on time. She then proceeded to stall shamelessly. She found that she just could _not_ bring herself to enter that house. The implications of Sarah's bribe irked her, insulted her honor, and yet…to deny that food…home_made_ food! She wasn't sure if it was something she could force herself to resist.

As she was equivocating, aloud (and quite belligerently), to herself, weighing the gains and losses of such a _small_ tactical surrender, scuffing noises alerted her to the new variable in her surroundings. She looked up to watch as Blink turned the corner. He was whistling, happily, and looking very pleased with himself. This new, and not unwelcome, development forced Emma to postpone her decision for the much more enjoyable task of taunting her friend.

She wondered who had given her away, for he was obviously ready for her, cocking his head and asking with an exasperated chuckle; "Emma, do you _like_ trouble, or does it just _follow_ you everywhere?" He took an experimental step forward, and she took a measured one back.

"I am just the _victim_ of ill luck!" Emma insisted, alarmingly virtuous, swiping the stolen hat from atop her head, and clasping it to what she assumed to be her heart, in the most dramatic fashion she could.

"Your heart's on the other side." Blink critiqued, slyly taking advantage of Emma's momentary lapse in concentration, and making a daring attempt to rescue the hat Emma was holding hostage. He wasn't quite fast enough though, and Emma's instincts were sharp. She darted away at the last possible moment, and deftly assessed her current predicament.

Unfortunately for Emma, she had not been properly prepared this confrontation, and as such the surrounding area lacked the proper poles or monuments for her to shinny up. Intensifying Blink's rather steep advantage were the four inches he had over her even five ft. stature.

Happily cursing her luck, and thinking quickly, Emma scrambled towards the fire escape, with the blond boy only scant inches behind her, and gaining. Flinging sassy insults over her shoulder as scrambled up the stairs, and laughing helplessly at the retorts he tossed instantly back to her; Emma managed to keep just barely ahead of him. Though she knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up to her.

"You are a dirty, rotten, thief!"

"I resent that! I _just_ had a bath, Cyclops!"

"Whata you mean, _Cyclops_! The ladies love me! It's considered dashing!"

"Dashing or not, sense _when_ have you been with a lady?"

"Ouch! You got me! Direct shot to my honor!"

"Blink, you don't _have_ any honor!"

"No, I don't have my _hat_!"

Still laughing and bickering with her pursuer, Emma had nearly reached the relative sanctuary of the roof, where she would have room to run, when one of the rusty, misshapen, rails snagged at the hem of her skort. Catching her wholly off guard, the abrupt halt in her momentum sent Emma into sprawling, face-first, tumble towards the metal stairs.

Emma's experience-honed reflexes, braced automatically for the hard landing, and she tensed for the blow of metal on skin. Instead of a painful impact, she felt a steadying arm wrapped around her middle, yanking her back into the relative softness of Blink's chest with a soft thud.

It took Emma's adrenalin rattled brain a frenzied moment to sort the sequence of events into a rational order. Blink, completely unfazed by his own semi-heroic deed, took full advantage of the momentary respite in Emma's activity. Without relinquishing the girl from his casually protective hold, he plucked his misappropriated hat easily from Emma's head and returned it to the safety of its rightful, slightly skewed, perch, atop his own skull.

All of this before Emma had even gathered the presence of mind or concentration to pull away from him, sharply, very glad that he could not see the red tinting her cheeks. She took a moment to banish the blush, and quickly shake the confusion from her thoughts, before turning to him, with an angry exclamation.

"Interference!" she insisted, heatedly, one hand on her hip and the other waving emotively.

Staving off the delighted smile long enough for a response; "It's your own fault, wearing skirts!" he couldn't help but breaking into a saucy grin as he amended the implied reproof, "Not that I'm complaining…"

Emma rolled her eyes, groaning "You have no _shame_." The accusation was undermined by the amused grin that it was accompanied by. Their mutual respect may have been unspoken, but it was none the less understood.

"None," He agreed, shrugging, and flashing her a crooked smile, new to her, before glancing down at his grumbling stomach.

"But I _do_ have to get to dinner." He turned, trotting down the few flights of stairs between the roof and his destination and entering the Jacobs' house via the bedroom window.

"Him too?" Emma wondered silently to herself, but this wasn't the time for thinking, as her stomach noisily reminded her, it was time for food. She took a deep breath, promising herself a good thorough talking to later, before following him into the house, for a much needed dinner.

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Reviewingness is next to godliness


	8. I like this Even with construction

A note: Emma's full name is not Emily, but Emeline.

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Through a series of deeply unfortunate decisions that Emma was not privy to, she found herself sitting in between Sarah and Blink. The former, she was sure, would drive her slowly into the raging abyss of insanity, while the other, she was equally certain, would add cheeky insult to proper injury by laughing in Emma's petulant face. Emma was nervous already, and the night was still young.

To her utter relief, Emma found the food fabulous, and the Jacobs brothers provided decent conversation. She remembered, a bit belatedly, to complement Mrs. Jacobs on the food, and was _just_ about ready to admit her preconceived grudge on Sarah a hasty one, when the torment began.

"Emily?" The girl began, making Emma wince, heavily, at the atrocious presumption. Emily was _not_ her name; it had _never_ been her name. Why did _everyone_ think that was her name?

"Emma" she corrected, and then, to further impress her point, she stressed "_Emma._" Blink smothered a laugh at the pained look on her face, while David sent his sister an annoyed look. (Les was, for the moment, ignoring everything but his food.) At the other end of the table, the adults were conversing earnestly with Jack, and therefore were not going to provide Emma with any assistance.

Sarah graced the newsie with an apologetically benevolent look, which somehow left Emma feeling as though _she_ was the one who had been in the wrong. It was a very complicated exchange, and only added to Emma's, rapidly growing, apprehension.

_Just leave me _alone, Emma begged, silently, sending Sarah telepathic mind waves of astounding mental intensity. Sarah ignored, or missed, the despairing plea and continued her speech.

"Do you ever wear blouses?" she asked, a polite smile returning to its ever-present position on her face.

"No, I—" Emma began, but found herself talking to an oblivious audience.

"Because I think you would give you an almost lady-like air. You might even be handsome looking," she added, happily, then paused apparently ready now for Emma's input.

"Ummm…" Emma muttered, vaguely, buying some precious time with a precariously large bite of whatever delicious blessing adorned her plate. She chewed slowly, hoping something, _anything,_ else would come up. She realized, subsequently, that she should have known to be more careful with her wishes.

"Oh! And Emily—"

"Em-_ma_!" The newsgirl insisted, impulsively, around the food she had yet to swallow. This, consequently earned her a shocked look from Sarah, who paused a moment before again allowing Emma that same benevolent look, this time with an added edge of, decorum-minded, impatience.

"Why do you keep your hair in such a severe bun? I think you would look _so_ much better with your hair down!"

Not on your life.

"Jack! Um…Jack's…friend…" Sarah looked slightly perturbed at her inability to draw Blink's name from her superior memory, but shook it off quickly. "Don't you think so?"

Emma turned mutely towards the two boys. Failing miserably in a frantic attempt to glare and plead at both the boys at once, and silently, Emma only succeeded in goading the two jokers even further toward the most obvious answer.

"Yeah."

"Yes."

They answered in perfect union, with admirably straight faces, and honest voices. Emma did not appreciate the effort, and mouthed a few, particularly black, swear words she'd learned from Spot himself, before turning to quickly, but forcefully decline involvement. She wanted no part of Sarah's intended experiment.

But with her nimble, doily-enhanced, fingers, Sarah had already instigated her attack, releasing Emma's painstakingly subdued locks. Emma felt her hair winding free, mocking her in the cruel voices she was sure none of the others heard.

"There!" Sarah sighed, happily "Isn't _that_ an improvement!" Emma smiled, weakly, at her oblivious tormenter, before throwing some nearly hysterical looks towards first David, who had his head propped on his hand, covering his eyes, obviously embarrassed for his sister, and then to Les, who rolled his eyes, winked, and smoothly changed the topic of conversation.

Emma, with a fervent telepathic 'thank you' she could have _sworn_ Les caught, bent over the food that had so deviously lured her here in the first place, and contemplated the many, many, ways she knew she would never be able to kill Sarah Jaccobs.

The Brooklyn newsie remained quiet, and carefully unobtrusive, other then a harsh kick to Blink's shin when he told her how the hairstyle made her 'a whole new woman. The rest of the meal was spent observing the other people at the table. She discovered just how nice the Jaccob's were, when they refilled her plate, though she knew that they had little enough for sharing. She saw that Les was, of course, the first one to finish, and sneak away from the table to _Candide_ knew where. She also noticed the unreadable, yet vaguely conspiratorial look that passed between Jack and Sarah. It made her veeery nervous.

Immediately following dinner, Emma excused herself, with an icy glare towards Jack and Blink, briefly thanked Mrs. Jaccobs, and fled to the freedom of the fire escape!

After bumbling down the stairs and indulging in a few, delicious swear words, she leaned against the bottom of the building, and groaned. Though she hadn't the willpower to spend another ten minuets tugging and coaxing her rebellious hair back into its bun, she none-the-less swatted at it, angrily, before blowing a frustrated, relieved sigh, glad to be out of that place! She dug around her pockets, searching for something to smoke, something to ease her nerves. After finding a dingy looking cigarette, she began fumbling again, this time for a match, or, really, any flammable device.

"Damn" she moaned, when she came up empty handed. What a night! Even her beloved pockets had deserted her call! And the day had started out so very promising! Emma felt her mood dipping dangerously near sulky.

"Light?" The question was little above a whisper, and so close and unexpected that Emma jumped, startled to find Blink standing next to her. The boy laughed, easily, pleased to have caught her off-guard, as he lit her small, white, cylinder.

Emma breathed in deeply, inhaling the mixture of nicotine, tar, and who knew what other chemicals, and let out a strangled choke, belatedly remembering her peculiar taste for cigars did not extend to their albino cousins.

"Damn." She could have used a little stress relief. She didn't quite understand why Sarah had such a damaging effect on her, but it never failed to send her scrambling for a cigar. Blink arched an eyebrow at her, as she put out the offending joint, and crushed it under her foot.

"I cannot _stand_ her," Emma groused, by way of a muddled explanation as the two made their way back to the lodging house.

"And _you_, what sort of friend allows, even encourages, such vile acts!" she admonished him, half-heartedly, but with a decidedly dangerous edge.

"But Emily—" He started, provokingly, before expertly ducking the well-aimed fist she threw at him.

"Emma" She growled over her shoulder, as he grinned, smugly.

"Emma." He mollified, wisely opting to keep the inflammatory original ending of his sentence for future fun.

The two walked a long way in semi-amicable silence, the night being as nice as the slums of New York allowed. The street lamps had been lit while they were yet inside, and they glowed with a warm, counterfeit, reassurance. The familiar streets were comforting to Emma and the nice night softened her petulant mood. She watched the city pass her slowly by, beneath her sure stride. As the city worked its subtle magic on her, Emma found herself incapable of further animosity.

She gave the boy beside her a forgiving, if reluctant, smile. Blink had been her first friend in Manhattan. He had been rather hard to miss, with that distinctive eye patch, and golden, laid-back, smile. Besides, he'd believed her theories on Candide, and _that_ was rare.

Emma stopped when they'd reached their destination, turning from Blink to look back at the city, her city. She reveled in New York's drastic mood swings. She marveled at the peculiarities unique to the night, so different from those the day hoarded. Emma loved the city; it was in her bones, and in her heart.

"Emma?" Blink's breath was warm on her neck and his question gently compelling. Emma felt her pulse dance a bit, at the sound. She turned quickly, to see him standing less then a foot from her, his gaze intent, and a lingering smile softening his face.

In a flash, she remembered the secure, easy feeling of his arm wrapped around her, and the warmth of his chest against her back. She was subsequently glad that the night's shadows hid her light blush.

Meeting the one eye not hidden by his eye patch with her own inquiring gaze, and was surprised by the depth she found there. His usual cheek, had vanished, replaced with something that pleased Emma, though she could not set a name to it. Her blush deepened, but she didn't retreat, as Blink leaned closer to her, their bodies were inches apart, and his lips so close to hers, that Emma could feel their warmth, scant microns away.

"Emma…" he breathed again "Can I—" Her lips met his, interrupting his request with her answer.

Inside, Emma's world stopped, reversed momentum, and began spinning counter-clockwise, at an alarmingly rapid pace.

Gentle, he was so gentle. The tenderness she was so unaccustomed to warmed her, and Emma felt herself sigh softly into the kiss. And what a kiss!

Blink reached casually for her wrist, to bring her a little closer, but the innocuous gesture sent Emma recoiling sharply back, from the flash of a memory she'd have sworn she'd overcome. The brief inner glimpse of a dark alley, and drunk, senseless boy, faded swiftly, and Emma turned back after only a moment or two's firm self-reminder of just how far she'd come from that night.

The easy apology and explanation petered from her lips, as she turned to find the boy gone.

"Damn."

* * *

Review. Do it. Go on, do it!


	9. In which construction seems pointless

(I have nothing to say, but I feel like I can't actually leave this part empty.)

* * *

Emma's thoughts were a-whirling and spiraling through her head like outraged cartwheels. The effect was massively overwhelming. So overwhelming, that Emma had to lean on the side of the lodging house for a moment before her equilibrium returned, a bit breathless from its brief vacation. Emma found the sensation not entirely unpleasant, but wondered, baffled, how something as small as a kiss could shake her entire inner world so thoroughly.

The moon winked, brazenly, at the newsie as she turned to enter the building. The warm bubbly feeling working its way to the tip of her tongue, Emma was surprised to discover and quick to repress, was a very girlish giggle. Such a blunder would have been the end of any credibility she had worked so hard to earn from the newsies. An irrepressible twitch at the corners of her mouth, however, stoically refused to be vanquished, and it dawned on Emma that she'd uncovered the trick to that secret smile many of the other girls had worn; the one that she'd so puzzled over.

Vetoing her first instinct, the impractical impulse to rush up the stairs and wrap her arms around Blink for another kiss, Emma turned her feet toward her _own_ bunk. She had the distinct, and perturbing, feeling that giving into her impulses would lead to endless ridicule, and besides, she needed to take some time to sort out her own thoughts. Her usually orderly flow and mesh of synapse firings had just become a tangled forest of vines which had so suddenly bloomed and twined and platted themselves into a horribly incomparable mess.

Emma realize that it was statistically, humanly, and physically impossible to sneak into the girls dorm. The trials and hard-learned experience of living on the streets had rendered them inhumanly observant, but Emma, ever the optimist, attempted the impossible. The moment Emma entered the room, the card game on the floor stopped, as well as the other, rather limited activity in the dorm, as all four sets of eyes zeroed in on her.

Ember, Swan, and Page were sprawled in various positions across the floor, playing an interesting mixture of canasta, poker and go fish which Ace had invented to utterly confuse Racetrack. It had rather worked. Half-bit, the girls called her Bitsy, was tucked in to her bunk, probably by Swan, who took on the limited mothering requirements for the mostly capable Newsgirls. The young newsie managed to send Emma a bleary, sleepy-eyed wave, before snuggling back under her skimpy covers and attempting to attain some shut-eye.

"You in, Em?" Ember queried, lazily, from her precarious, upside-down position half on, half off the extra bottom bunk.

"I'm tired." Emma declined; in what she hopped was a casual tone, as she shook her head, attempting to sublimate the blush spreading across her face.

"Not so." Page corrected, her perfect accent striking a discordant note amid the New York brogue "You're blushing, but we'll converse tomorrow." Page liked to read, that was the accepted explanation, anyhow.

The reprieve, however brief, was a welcome one, though not entirely unexpected. The boys may have been obnoxiously inept at providing one another with any emotional, physical, or even spiritual privacy, but the Newsgirls had a much more efficient system. They all knew that Emma would cave in all the sooner if she'd had the time to sort every thing out to for herself before explaining it to the girls. The threat of tomorrow, none the less, was not an empty one and Emma knew that she would eventually be hunted down and given the Manhattan equivalent of the Spanish inquisition. Or Candide would tell them. Whichever one happened first. (Emma had _her_ money on Candide.) The girl gave her friends a weary, grateful smile before stripping off her outer clothes and retreating to the cover of her corner bed.

Shutting her eyes, and unlocking the padlocked gaits of her mind, Emma prepared herself for the taxing adventure ahead; bushwhacking, machete style, through her hopelessly snarled web of thoughts.

"Go fish" Swan crowed triumphantly, but Emma had long, long ago how to completely tune her, quite vocal, friends out when any kind of thinking needed to be done.

For the love of Brooklyn! This was surely the last thing that Emma had ever expected to happen. She was having trouble, even now, believing that it had happened at all. Kid Blink was her friend. He had _been_ her friend from the first that she'd stepped, wander-weary, into Manhattan. Blink had been the first of Cowboy's newsies to greet her, and the only one who had ever believed her Candide-squirrel theory. It was such an effortless friendship. Kid's glib banter and easy nature contrasted so amicably with Emma's oppositional streak and caustic conversation.

Emma had never tried to complicate the comfortable relationship with any pretense of romance. This was not really due to any nobility on Emma's part. It had honestly never even occurred to her that romance was an option. Intuition was not the newsgirl's strong point.

She could not begin to deny how she had liked it. Everything about it made Emma smile. How he had waited for her to consent and his surprise when she hadn't the patience for a verbal answer. The genuine softness, and all the subtle promise that the kiss itself had contained.

She ran the sensitive pad of her index finger over the place where his lips had embraced hers, marveling as a phantom echo of the kiss caressed her lips. A soft, satisfied sigh whispered through her. Emma, who had long ago recognized her inability to lye to herself, had to admit just how strong her feelings for the Newsie were. She had grown fond of him, she allowed, and then, grudgingly, she shook off the last barriers that clung, unwilling to emancipate her honesty. She loved him. The revelation held less surprise then she would have expected, though a slight thrill lit through her, as the words fluttered across her heart.

Emma had known love before. She had discovered, in Spot, the love and loyalty gradually gained from a brother. She had found the companionship and sisterly affection from Candide and the Newsgirls. But Emma had never _been_ in love before. It was an entirely new experience for her.

The discovery scared her a little. Emma was not well equipped for lover's games, or coy flirting. Such things ran against her blunt, straight-forward, grain. Emma deeply needed to know where she stood in the world, she craved control.

She looked at her life with all the frankness of a boxer. Emma was gifted with the ability to know when she was losing, and adjust her actions accordingly or to recognize when she was winning, and build upon her strategy. She held the power there; power that she needed. Emma terribly ill-adept at all of the tenderness that embodies love. In acknowledging such an unusual feeling, she was admitting weakness within herself. Placing her heart in another's hands was giving a great measure of control to someone else. It was a proverbial leap of faith. Did she trust Blink? Yes.

Did she trust him enough?

Falling in love was a lot like being drunk, Emma equated. Her senses and reasoning were over-sensitive, and for all practical purposes, useless. She immediately shuddered at the memory, which Ace had had quite a large roll in the making of.

Was it worth the buzz?

Insofar as drinking was concerned, Emma had long ago decided that it was most definitely _not._ The headache and massively disturbing loss of control had bothered her. However, this kind of buzz was different. It was warm and electrifying. Even more, it was subtly comforting. She remembered again the way he'd caught her on the fire escape, the way his touch had lit her cheeks and set her pulse humming melodically. She'd not thanked him for catching her. She should have, Blink had probably saved her from some nasty cuts or bruises.

The secret smile wriggled its devious way back to her mouth as Emma relived the way his grip had lingered about her. She had felt comfortable there…safe. Immediately, Emma began to backtrack, bristling internally, even in the sanctuary of her own mind, against the supposition that she might need anyone to protect her. Emma was independent. She had proved that again, and again. The fact remained, thoroughly undaunted, that she _had_ felt protected. Emma had felt as though she was unassailable. She'd felt safe.

Emma forced herself to stop and take stock of these, increasingly unnerving, revelations. Was she losing herself to these warm, and rather fuzzy, feelings? Was it allowable to feel this strongly? Was the wanting him an intolerable weakness? Was it strength? Emma's mind was quickly becoming cluttered with questions she could not answer, fluttering in from goodness knows where!

A nagging, cynical, _spiteful_ little corner of Emma's mystified mind reminded her of the well-known reputation Blink had. He was, always had been, an unabashed ladies' man. The horrid little bit of her mind slid her cruel pictures of the multitude of beautiful and charming girls Emma had seen Blink with. It reminded her how infinitely more desirable they were. It assailed her, cruelly, with the knowledge that she couldn't hope to compare with them.

The traitorous little corner revisited the mirror's reflection which, only this morning, she had approved of. Emma reassessed the memory with new eyes. What could Blink possibly see in her? A crooked-nosed, scarred, wild-haired, Newsgirl? She wasn't even sweet tempered! The simple, deceptive, logic of it all caught her. For a moment, Emma floundered in the question.

Turning over on the bed, the single earring Emma wore caught painfully on a loose thread. She gave a soft squeak, though she was more startled than hurt. Emma slid the trinket from its small hole, and rolled it slowly between her fingers. It wasn't a very fine piece of jewelry, just a copper stud. It didn't sparkle, but it had a dull, warm sheen. Though poor quality, the stud held a bit of Emma's heart tightly. She loved it more, not less, for all its imperfections.

The Newsgirl smiled slowly at the obvious metaphor that the alternately sweet and cruel voice of irony had decided to bless her with.

Though this thought calmed, and reassured her, Emma remained vaguely apprehensive. Romance was not something that came naturally to the girl. Her first and strongest instinct was to bluster and banter her way right out of an uncomfortably emotional situation. She suspected, grimly, that Spot's rough and tumble mentorship may have had a rather large something to do with her fear of commitment. Finding a take on the whole situation that did not require much soul-searching, Emma spent a good five minuets cursing Spot for this with colorful, but silent, swearwords.

The raw truth of her attachment to Blink eventually brought her back to honest self-contemplation. She couldn't deny it. It wasn't worth the effort to try. The revelation left Emma completely stripped of her emotional defenses. She was in unfamiliar territory. That scared Emma. Every facet of this experience was new to her. She didn't know what to do with it all.

Despite Emma's incomparable ability to talk as lewdly as any self-respecting Brooklyn-born newsy, and the plethora of dramatic love-lives that she had followed via the great and comprehensive Candide, Emma had absolutely no romantic experience. None. She had never been kissed before that evening, much less found herself struggling through the mire of a first young love. Although her chastity was something she would die three or four particularly nasty deaths before admitting to even the most understanding of the newsies, Emma was rather invested in maintaining it. Perhaps it was the one thing her sister, Elanore, had imparted to Emma before the girl had run off, but Emma kept her body as her temple. It may have been a rather beat-up, ramshackle, temple…but it was still to be respected.

He had, though. No matter how many arguments she put up in her faulty attempt to retain her cynicism, she couldn't deny how much he'd respected her. Blink had asked her damned _permission_ for Pulitzer's sake!

And something about the way his gaze had smoldered without ever losing control had left her more then willing to comply. More then willing to give him her very first kiss. Such a simple thing to give, it was worth its weight in gold.

Emma couldn't decide, she kept deciding, and then suddenly changing her mind, whether she regretted pulling away from him when she had. With the millions of tiny little 'what ifs' roaming wild within her mind as it was, Emma wondered if a single moment more might have lead to a nasty case of spontaneous combustion. That wasn't to say that she didn't miss the feeling of his lips on hers. She missed it, and it hadn't been but an hour since.

A flash of memory crept upon her, of course, when she was least suspecting it. That smile Jack and Sarah had shared. What had it meant? In the light of recent events, it seemed to glimmer like a clue she had left unnoticed. Emma began to wonder if Skittery was right not to believe in coincidences. If the two things _were_ connected, was it a good or bad thing?

Emma wasn't quite sure which was worse out of the two possibilities she saw, looming before her. Either Sarah had done some serious matchmaking, something to be feared entirely in its own capacity, or Emma had been the only person in the room, with the possible exception of Mr. and Mrs. Jaccobs, left out of a bet. This was truly not a consoling thought.

The only blessed inconsistency in this new bit of logic was Blinks supreme lack of a gambling record. If it was to be bet on, for some reason even Candide had not discovered, Blink was as far away as possible. Certainly Emma had never seen the boy lay a bet on anything. Not even a _sure_ bet.

This only complicated the entire snarled mess to impossible new heights.

Could it possibly have been a joke or a bet? Emma found that the idea greatly angered her. Fortunately, while she could not bring herself to dismiss it completely, she found it more or less unlikely.

It just wasn't Kid Blink's way. He was a forthright person, and despite his reputation for being a flirtatious, naïve, Newsie, Emma had caught a glimpse of something solid and stable behind that eye patch. There had been several situations when it had slipped quietly through Emma's mind, from some comment, or derived from a slim implication the boy had made, That Blink knew and saw much, much more than he would ever say.

Emma winced slightly, remembering just how abruptly she had recoiled from the boy and understanding the vast difference between Blink's gentle fingers wrapped round her wrist and the vile, desperate clawing of the bastard in the ally.

She wondered vaguely what Kid Blink had thought of that. Had he considered her reaction a rejection? Had the boy thought that she hadn't liked the kiss? Because, _damn_, Emma had certainly enjoyed that kiss. The very fact that Blink had been able to make her blush was astonishing to Emma. It was not an easy feat. Those thoughts lead the girl to more, equally enjoyable thoughts.

The possibility of a joke or dare still hung heavily about Emma. The absolute sweetness of considering Kid Blink as something more then a friend created a bittersweet mixture in Emma's already bewildered mind.

She was left with only one option, and a very unsavory one at that. Emma decided to sleep on it.

But the lore that stories are made of, as we have repeatedly seen demonstrated, does _not_ like Emma. In fact, it seeps _particularly_ disenchanted with the Newsgirl. Perhaps it's her disregard for all things traditional?

Emma awoke to a hard darkness that she knew instantly was Brooklyn stone. The ally she lay in was just well enough lit for her to see a thin pattern of lace covering the stone of the buildings that shadowed it. To Emma, lace meant doilies and doilies could only mean one thing; Sarah.

Emma, awake now with this realization, didn't stop for the moment it would have take n her to wonder how she had gotten to Brooklyn, or why a dark fear had penetrated every surface of her heart.

Emma ran, sprinting with strides that stretched even her flexible skirt taut. Her breath came quick, cold and painful to her pumping lungs. She couldn't seem to get anywhere, though. That or the ally was growing. Emma couldn't decide which was more likely.

She sent a frantic glance over her shoulder to ascertain just how far she had come, and ran into a solid, warm body; Blink. Relief knit its way through Emma's terror and she wrapped tired arms around him in a tight hug before stepping back to explain her behavior from the night before. To her utter revulsion, she watched as the trusted face morphed into the loathed countenance of the boy who had tried to rape her. Emma's heart stopped for a terrible moment, before exploding into overdrive. A tortured scream was pulled from her and she hated herself for the weakness of that betrayal. She was violently trembling head to toe, and the years of fighting on the streets seemed to have been stolen from her memory.

From somewhere far away, Spot's voice, a cold, cruel, cadaver of her friend, slipped unbidden into her head;

"_Newsies_ don't cry."

Emma's eyes burned with acid tears and she tasted the salt in her mouth. The tears soon mixed with blood as the drunken boy shoved her violently against the wall. Emma felt the doilies unravel behind her, and then twine about her, she couldn't move, she couldn't fight, but she couldn't stop the spasms racking her body—

"Emma. _Emma._ God, Emma!"

Emma's eyes snapped open but in the absolute darkness of predawn it took her a few age-long moments to realize that Swan had woken her from the terrifying dream. Just a dream.

The tears were still warm on her cheeks and Swans gentle face was such a relief, her mothering arms wrapped about the younger girl's trembling, shaking form. Emma felt safe there.

" That must have been some dream!" Swan's rich accent was a comfort to Emma's shocked system. Too tired to object to such soothing kindness when all she really wanted to do was curl up into Swan and cry, Emma allowed the older girl to hold her while her trembling body calmed. She fell asleep to Swans mellow lullaby.

* * *

If you don't review. You will get pregnant. And die.


	10. Is it even worth construction?

(I love you)

* * *

It was yet early, as dawn streaks had begun to trail though the grey sky. Emma swept through the early morning empty-as-New-York-gets crowd, her internal compass' needle set to the magnetism of Brooklyn's mighty bridge.

No matter Emma's mood, she loved her city. Working her way through it's streets and alleys brought her a small, unconscious joy which subtly soothed her. The longer she walked, the slower her pace grew, until she was strolling contentedly along her path, having convinced herself that she was in no hurry. She stretched, easing the morning stiffness from her back and shoulders, realizing that the chilly morning was exactly to her liking.

A small, open market had opened trade to a few gathered neighbors. Despite knowing her little sabbatical left her without spare change for a treat, Emma wandered closer. She gave a cursory inspection of the goods and a fluttering smile without slowing.

One, familiar object registered adverse familiarity.

"Doilies?" she mused to herself and then, eyes widening in instant, horrible understanding, "Oh, Da—!"

Even before Emma had finished her mental expletive, a hand shot out of the adjoining booth and caught her shoulder. Emma didn't need to look to know which arm and body would accompany the slender fingers.

"Good morning Sarah," she sighed.

"Morning," Sarah's voice was devoid of it's usual bounce. The tone struck Emma as being unaffected and gentle. Adding voice and previous experience up, Emma came up with a distinct inequality. The equation forced Emma to focus on the girl in front of her, if only to ensure that this was Sarah.

Emma's current bad luck saw no reason for any sort of about face now, and pointed out, smugly, that there was no mistaking the individual Sarah Jacobs.

"I was wondering," Sarah's face was honest, "If I might talk to you for a moment," she indicated a small alley, just out of earshot but still visible from the market.

Intrigued by Sarah's chosen location and straightforward demeanor, Emma disregarded her better judgment and bit back the _I have _any_where else to be/over my dead and decaying cadaver/gotta go _which she had prepared. She nodded slowly and followed Sarah cautiously down the narrow path.

There was a moment of empty and painful silence between them as Sarah wiped her hands on an apron, Emma fiddled with one of her many pockets and both girls took extreme measures to study the bricks of the adjacent walls.

Finally, a small determined sigh from Sarah entered the stale air. "I need to apologies," she confessed stoutly, while Emma, shocked and silenced by this surreal admission, kindly blamed Sarah's pink cheeks on the chill weather.

"David spoke to me last night and," the seamstress continued "I see that I was…" she hesitated, unable to find the right word.

"…a little oblivious," Emma supplied, gently.

Sarah nodded humbly and the uneasy silence returned. Sarah seemed to be deciding what to say next. Emma was content to wait, quietly absorbing what she had been told.

"Also," Sarah began again, uncertainly, "And I'm only saying this because…I would want to know," the stipulation was rushed but Emma gleaned the implied 'not because I like you'.

"But Blink planned that evening. He paid David to invite you."

Emma's eyes bugged a bit. "Um…thank you," she told Sarah, managing not to stumble over the words.

Sarah nodded absently, allowing a measure of time to pass before asking, earnestly "We won't ever be friends, will we?"

Emma tilted her head, sincerely considering this peculiar question. "I don't think we _can _be," she concluded finally.

Sarah gave her a tight, acknowledging, smile.

With the smile, a melancholy flame lit and extinguished in Sarah's eyes, so rapidly, that Emma wasn't even positive she had seen it flicker there. Impulsively, she blurted "But, I wont forget the favor, Sarah," softening her candid answer.

There was a moment, again, of silence, contemplative and easy now. A crash of hooves on stone broke the flash of understanding and the girls parted ways without another word or glance.

But the gears and cogs in both girls minds were whirring with the other's newly discovered depth. And Emma's heart and mind had, lamentably, further twined themselves together.

* * *

When you review, a unicorn gets an A in geometry.


	11. What? Even more construction?

(Some days, you just want to let your inner Mary Sue out. Um, right?)

* * *

Emma's shoes hit Brooklyn turf with palpable relief. Suddenly, fear and indecision evaporated. Here, people smelled fear, so there was no place for it. Head high, small body tensed and ready for anything, Emma claimed yet another part of her beloved city. Spot may have owned Brooklyn, there was no doubt that the borough loved him, but Emma was New York. The city had raised her, mothered her, and loved her. And in Brooklyn above all places, Emma was at home.

Instead of asking around for Spot's whereabouts, she'd been gone too long for it to be worth the trouble, she made an educated guess, and headed towards the bridge. If he wasn't actually there, someone she knew would be.

It had rained sometime in the night, so the streets were pleasantly foggy and whisked with low clouds. The rough feel of the city suited Emma, and by the time she had reached the bridge she was smiling. Her indecision had hardened into pure resolve. Conlon would listen to her, and he'd give it to her straight. When he set his mind to it, he had decent advice. Usually. Besides, she'd hit the wall, and he was all that was left.

At the edge of the bridge, Emma saw the boy she was looking for, and a girl she was not. Candide was speaking animatedly to the Brooklyn boy. Unfortunately she was also speaking softly enough for their conversation to be private. Wishing she'd gotten in on the whole squirrel bit, so she could've understood what was going on, Emma was not prepared when Candide whirled away from Spot, and started towards her. Emma cocked an eyebrow as the newgirl approached.

"It's none of your business, and he's _such_ a prick." Candide's words were sharp, and just as quickly, she had swept past Emma on her way to anywhere but here.

Emma's mouth quirked, Spot and Candide had interesting effects on each other. Approaching the Brooklyn boy, she received an unnecessary glare.

"She's such a bitch," he declared, darkly.

"Do you anger her on purpose? Because it's not safe…even for you…" It was Emma's turn to smirk at her friend.

"It's none of your business, why are you here?" His tone denoted the question's low priority.

"You sound just like her," Emma observed.

"Shut up, scruffy,"

"Hey, now, don't take it out on me!"

She spit into her palm, and offered it to him, in the time-honored tradition of good faith and brother-hood. His expression lightened subtly, and he followed suit.

"Good ta have ya back," Spot muttered, by way of a vague apology.

"All is graciously forgiven,"

"_What?_" he asked, quizzically.

"Nothing," He knew what she was talking about, he just wouldn't admit it. Considering that she was about to unload her past two days of emotion in a moment, she wasn't going to push this issue.

"So whya here?" He asked, blunt as usual.

"Actually, spotty—"

"Woah, woah, whoa…no," he had been leaning against the bridge, but his whole attitude became defensive at her inventive nickname. Spot protected his 'dignity' like a mother chicken worried over her eggs. It bordered on pompous. (1)

Pleased with the effectiveness of her taunt, Emma had none-the-less come here for another reason.

"Then stop calling me scruffy, anyway, I'm here to talk to you." She paused here, not quite sure how to continue. Spot was just really not the kind of person you poured your soul out to on a daily basis. If she wasn't so set on doing this and if he hadn't been the closest family she had left, well, then she wouldn't have come here in the first place. Spot, for his part, chose this moment to make everything completely awkward;

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he looked genuinely concerned, behind his offhand phrasing.

The question caught Emma by the ear, she couldn't believe what he'd just asked her.

"What the _hell_?" she demanded, face contorted in disbelief and disgust.

"Why else would you want to talk to me?" Spot shrugged, having found his answer in her disgust, he played it off with perfect nonchalance. Emma wasn't able to follow suit.

"What the _hell?_" she repeated, unable to get past this.

"Maybe that was the wrong question to ask you," Spot admitted, cocking his head at her strange expression. "Why _did_ you come?"

Emma was still fuming over his last question, illustrated with a frustrated; "Nnngrmpht!" and by throwing up her hands, exasperated. "Damn, Spot can you ever ruin a moment!"

He merely folded his arms and shrugged. When she kept staring at him, he opened his mouth to pacify her somewhat. Emma held up a hand, "Skip it, Spot, I just need to talk to you,"

"You've said that," He stated, nodding encouragingly. "You haven't, however, told me why…"

"Would you just shut up? It's about Blink…" She paused a moment and sucked in a deep draft of the Brooklyn air that made her feel so bold and decisive. There was a moment of awkward silence before she stumbled through the first few sentences about how much of a friend he had been to her. Once the words started, Emma couldn't spit them out fast enough.

She wove the story for Spot, who stayed surprisingly quiet. She told him about the kiss, and why she'd pulled away. She told him about Sarah and David, about how much the one-eyed boy meant to her, and finally about her total confusion and fear of losing herself. She spilled out her words to him and when she was done, she looked at him, waiting for him to speak, waiting for his words.

"Why 'dya tell me?" He asked, presently.

The response was so quick in coming, that Spot wondered if she'd expected his question and pre-prepared an answer.

"'Cuz you don't bullshit me, Conlon. I trust you." The admission was a bold one, for her. Something she'd never told him outright. "Besides, who else do I have?" she laughed, ruefully at the last bit.

"And what do you want from me, Emma?" Spot looked at her, calmly. This kid was more important to him then he'd let on. She'd never asked for anything more then being a newsie. A newsie with no agenda, it had to be a first in his book, and she had something in her that he cared about, in his own, narcissistic way.

"I just don't know what to do next, Spot," she made a funny face "I'm not good at this romantic stuff,"

"Been telling you that for years," He muttered, smirking when she scowled at him.

"You are such a _boy_!" she accused him, hands akimbo.

He waved her off with his hat, effectively telling her to 'keep your skirt on.' Spot leaned back against the bridge again, thinking.

"Do ya like him, Emma?" he finally asked, to Emma's chagrin.

"I just spent the last fifteen minuets telling you just how much and you're seriously asking-" she was cut off by Spot's unmistakable wisdom.

"Then why're you telling me, Scruffy? Never known you to go the long way around before," he smiled, knowingly at her, and jerked his head, sharply, flicking his bangs out of his blue eyes.

"I hate it when you're right," she told him, "It'll go to your head, too…" she added, shaking her head, sadly.

"Get out of here, Emma. Poor fool's waiting for you somewhere. Pulitzer knows what he sees in you." Spot declared mournfully, hat over heart.

Laughing at the incongruous sight before her, Emma couldn't deny the good sense Spot momentarily contained, but wasn't about to let him go with out a bit of her own advice.

"Candide's not going to wait for you forever, Brooklyn." She told her surrogate-brother, abruptly.

It was Spot's turn to be confused.

"The hell?" he demanded.

"She's the only girl who's ever really challenged you, Spot. She's the only one who'll ever really be good enough. Don't be thick, Brooklyn."

She smiled as he sputtered protests and curse words at her with alarming variety.

"You do _not_ like being wrong, do you?"

This was really too much, Emma knew it. So she wasn't really surprised when his fist connected with her shoulder.

"I love you, too."

"Get off my bridge!"

Shaking her head at his childish behavior, Emma followed his order. He needed time to think and she had a newsie to find.

* * *

When you review, it's like I win at life.


	12. In which there is no end to construction

(One day, I swear. I swear. I will finish editing all of this.)

* * *

Emma took long the walk back to Manhattan to weigh the pros and cons of getting amazingly drunk before spilling her heart out to Blink. She got into it with herself, arguing and bickering arguments back and forth silently, and sometimes not so silently, between the voices inside her head.

Pros:

You won't remember any of it.

It would be a really great excuse.

No more inhibitions.

The looks on the newsgirls' faces when she came home drunk.

Cons:

You won't remember any of it.

You'll feel like a walking corpse tomorrow.

Who in their right mind takes a drunken person seriously?

You might throw up on him instead.

Reluctantly, she disregarded the idea. If she could handle Brooklyn, being a newsie and Spot Conlon, she could be a man and tell Blink she loved him. Or…be a woman, and do...what was the difference, really?

_Oh hell_. This was going to be difficult.

It was more difficult then she had expected, because Blink was nowhere to be found. Emma made the rounds through every profitable part of the borough and found them all distinctly lacking Blink. Even the newsies she met with along the way had seen neither hat nor patch of him all day. Her happy mood dipped precariously as the search proved fruitless. Emma's quest was cut short only by an encore of the previous night's rain.

It seemed like a very enthusiastic encore.

Wet and angry, Emma slammed the Lodging house door behind her, disregarding the quizzical looks Boots and Itey sent her from the poker table, Emma thunked, moodily up the stairs. She was unbelievably mixed up again inside, and further annoyed by the insult of not understanding her own mind.

Muttering darkly to herself, entirely engrossed in her own thoughts, she didn't see the boy leaning casually on the wall next to the girls' room. She would have passed him right by if he hadn't admitted a gentle "hey,"

"Blink?" Emma's whole thought process jarred, uncomfortably. "Where the _hell _have you been?" she demanded, not giving him a chance to answer before blundering on. "I have been looking for you for the _entire_ afternoon! I am wet, confused, pissed off and it's entirely your fault."

She glared at him, hands akimbo, wondering how in the world she went from confessing her love to yelling at him.

"Um, are you angry at me?" He asked, tilting his head with a show of innocence that Emma really hoped he was faking.

"No, this is my _happy face._" She snapped.

"Look," his voice was suddenly all seriousness, "If I stepped out of line last night…well, I'm sorry," His gaze did not meet her eyes.

She softened, damn his unnatural grip on her heart. "Why did you kiss me, Blink?"

He sighed, obviously taking this as a 'how could you' statement.

"Because I think you're amazing. You cheat at cards," his mouth curled up as he listed, "You think Candide has an army of squirrels who do her bidding-"

"She does!" Emma interrupted, impulsively, fighting back a smile when he lifted his eyebrows at her.

"Because you're such a newsie, Emma,"

The words slid over her; the most romantic, perfect declaration she could have imagined. Here, after all the worrying and doubts about her ability to hold him, he wanted her for everything she was. He admired the person she needed to be. He didn't _want_ a skirt-clad, clean-cut girl. He wanted a newsie.

"Oh," she mouthed, unable to think of anything to say to that.

"But that's no excuse," he admitted, attempting to further apologize, but Emma wasn't listening.

"So it wasn't a dare?" she asked, searching his face with fluttering eyes, "You meant it?"

"I don't gamble Emma, I thought you knew that," Blink looked subtly hurt by her question, which only made her trust him further.

"Then why did you leave?" Her question was soft, a little hurt.

He laughed at her, long and loud, forcing her eyebrows to knit together in anger, her fists curling. In a moment more, Blink would have been on the floor (6.), defending himself against her well-trained outpouring of rage. Fortunately for Blink, he reacted quickly.

"Emma, you jerked away from me, what was I supposed to think?" He was still chuckling at her and she felt a blush rising to her cheeks. This was really too much for her pride. She side-stepped him, making for the girls dorm.

"Don't," His soft word slapped her. The effect was both enraging and soothing, she couldn't decide which emotion dominated, but she turned to him, eyes searching.

"Blink, why do you wear the eye patch?"

It was a question she had asked before, never getting the same answer, though always entertained by the story; "Fight with a bear, I can see dead people, it was gouged out by a jealous lover, I ate it," and, Emma's favorite; "The squirrels got it!"

"It earns me an average dime-a-day more. And…We all want to be memorable. We all want something that's ours," his answer was honest, eye searching her gaze.

"Why did you pull away?"

"A memory. I was caught by something that should never have happened."

He waited, patiently for her explanation, as she drew deep and began to lay out the thoughts she would offer to him.

"When I was in Brooklyn-"

Her answer, slow and solemn was cut off by the wild trajectory of the door, ending in a sharp, wooden _thwack _between her shoulder blades.

"Damn!" she cursed, whirling angrily to see who had inflicted the pain. The smell reached her first, a husky, burning aroma, which reeked of charred hair and singed skin.

Ember stood before them, a small smirk on her face, a cigarette in her mouth and lit matches between her fingers. The slip ends of her wavy red hair was black and smoking, soon to be ash, though no flames licked at her except those devouring the matches. Her hands were red and the smell of burned skin was overpowering. The amazing part was the absolute lack of burns or ash on her clothes. They were spotless. It made the whole scene more bizarre. Ember did not have accidents with fire. She had the finesse and careful attendance of a lover to her flames.

"Emma, Blink," she nodded, her low voice smooth and knowing. "Emma, it's card night, and you know the rules," She raised her eyebrows, daring Emma to deny it. In the silence between them all, she slowly blew out one match, and then the other, as they got too close to her skin. The third one left a dark red mark on her fingers before she blew it lovingly out.

Card night was sacred

The game, made up by Ace to be complicated enough to spite Racetrack (1.), was a mixture of canasta, poker, and go fish, with a few of their own tweaks. Only the Manhattan newsgirls ever really knew all the rules, possibly because they changed with every Card night.

There were some simple house rules. The stakes were never monetary, and points were given for imaginative bets. The oldest girl was always dealer. The youngest girl was always referee. Each girl shuffled the deck once. Then the fun could begin. These games often went late into the night. So late, that some days there would be a paucity of female newsies on the streets the next day. It had been accepted as a small price to pay.

Sighing, Emma nodded, and turned back to Blink.

"I really don't have a choice," She admitted, as Ember shut the door.

Blink knew the rules; he had watched Ember drag Star from Iety's bunk last time. "Tomorrow? Will you wait for me at the distribution square?" he meant it and she loved him for it.

Cupping his face gently in her rough hands, she kissed him softly. Her lips weaving words she didn't have the skill to string together. "I will wait for you," she smiled. Then, winking cheekily, she slid through the door, leaving him staring at the place where she had been.

His goofy grin was going to give him away. _Damn_.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(1.) He wouldn't take her to the races. Among other small slights. Honestly, he's not being sexist, he just would rather not lose…He needn't have worried, she's not so good at things that aren't card games. She's just really amazing at anything involving the cards. Houses made of cards, fortune telling. You name it. She and Race really are the best of friends. Though he still won't take her to the races, and she still wont tell him how to play the game.

Reviews are like when lobsters become beautiful.


	13. In which Emma shouldn't have got drunk

(I love these two together. Slashfic fanfic of fanfic anyone?)

* * *

Emma whimpered at the wave of nauseated pain nudging her out of sleep. She snuggled closer to the warm bundle next to her, hoping to snag the few minutes between blackness and memory. Forget waking the boys, she needed sleep. It was the logic of the effort that brought her back to reality.

Against her will, she found her eyes open, and she winced. A soft groan was all she could manage, as the fantastic extent of her hangover overwhelmed her. It was well past dawn, probably closer to midday, and the sun was clawing at the blood vessels behind her eyes. The silence in the room scrapped against the thin lining of her eardrums. Her stomach was dancing a strange, roiling jig. '_Emma…" _even her inner voice was listing, "_this…is why we don't…__uhg__…don't drink…" _

There was some difficulty in the decision that lay before her. She warred with two, equally hazardous options. She could get up and go to the bathroom, a movement she knew would turn her stomach and screw with her vision, or she could stay right where she was, but she would be sick all over herself.

Always on cue, the bundle beside her opened its eyes, dramatically. Candide raised a cynical eyebrow. "I had no idea you were such a snuggle-bunny, why didn't you—"

She stopped talking, a horrified look on her face. "Oh, you will _not_ throw up on me, Emaline!"

About to respond, Emma choked, swallowed, and snapped her mouth shut. She glared at Candide.

Card night had run late, even by newsgirl standards. In the course of the night, Emma had been prodded into telling the whole story. Not only that, but Candide had gotten her sinfully drunk, and she was fairly sure that Ashers had stolen her spare cigar. It'd been an intense night, as other stories had been unleashed, and rumors had spiced everyone's cheep beer.

She was an exceptionally entertaining drunk, this she knew from Spot, but the morning after was rarely worth the effort. Unable to recall the amount of liquor she'd had, it must have been a lot. The last thing Emma remembered, though she was sure the fun had gone on long past that, were Swan's gentle hands lifting her from the unusually comfortable floor. How Candide got into her bed…well, she suspected someone had gotten creative with their bets. She hated when the girls got creative with their bets.

Candide must have had some residual guilt for the result of her beer-toting handiwork on Emma's intolerant stomach, because she hauled her up out of the bed and helped her into the bathroom. She even held back her hair.

"You owe me another lunch." Emma glowered, hoarsly, after last night's dinner had been expelled from her unhappy belly. Candide rolled her eyes. "And possibly a man!" She accused, more vehemently. Candide's smile was conspiratorial, and Emma found her anger dispelled by the girl's good nature. She returned the smile, shakily, with half a mind tuned to the meeting she was so late for.

"Come on, Candie, I'll call it even if you'll help me get out of here…and re-learn how to walk…"

After pulling on a set of clothes, Emma allowed her friend to tie back her curls, while she scrubbed her teeth with a finger and checked her skirt for remaining cigars. They were all gone. Candide's fingers were gentle, and Emma, finished with her half-hearted preening, studied the dark features behind her in the small mirror.

Candide tucked the last pin into Emma's hair, giving it a sisterly tap, and turning the girl around to face her. There was an honest look of communication passed between them, before Emma sighed, shaking her head, and hugged her friend.

Candid returned the affection for a moment before she shoo'd Emma from the dorm room.

* * *

(Reviewit, dammit, Janet!)


	14. In which there is a cliffhanger

Hullo, you lot. Here's the second-to-last entry (I hope.) Some minor edits have been made, and the author's note was added to the end, so as not to make everyone feel cheated when they saw more chapters than there actually are.

* * *

Emma hadn't even made it to the distribution building before Jack Kelly had manifested his unwelcome self beside her.

"So, Raggedy-Em," he said, "how's it feel, bustin' young boys hearts?"

Emma was forced to think about the order of his words because not only did he talk too fast, but some bastard had managed to turn up the sun.

"Uuuh…" she said.

"I knew you was full of bite, but Blink? that's a whole new—" Emma held up an unsteady hand.

"Francis, I'm so hung-over right now, that all I've understood so far is bite and Blink, so stop bein' a lousy horseless cowboy, and tell me where he is."

Jack re-settled his cowboy hat, clucking his tongue.

"You shouldn't drink, half-pint," he told her.

"Are you gonna tell me where he is?"

"And if he don't wanna be found?" Jack was serious. Frustrated, Emma rested her stinging eyes under one hand.

"I didn't leave him on purpose," she said. "In case you ain't noticed, I'm a lousy drunk."

Jack shook his head.

"He's at Stubby's, but he's not exactly whatcya call pleased."

"I could tell him I'm pregnant," she said, bleakly, following Jack towards the restaurant. He turned to look at her.

"Are you?"

"No," she said. "But I'm really, really uncoordinated."

"'Sprobably not gonna help, then."

They lapsed into silence, as Emma squinted, focusing on the Cowboy hat bobbing in front of her. It leered at her through the haze of brightness and noise as Jack lead her toward Stubby's, where he deposited her on a stool by a morose-looking Kid Blink.

"I done my part," Jack said, tipping his hat and turning, quickly, towards another booth.

Emma blinked, saw sunspots and tried again.

"Umm..."

_Oh,_ yeah,_ Emma, s_he congratulated herself. _That's the way to start a conversation.  
_  
"Don't bother," Blink said. "I got the message loud and clear."

She winced.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I waited for you," he told her.

"I know, Candide got me—"

"Are you really gonna blame Candide?" he asked.

"drunk last night."

"That's convenient," he said, turning to look at the menu.

"It's true!"

"True like Candide's squirrels, or true like yesterday's headlines?"

"That's not fair," Emma stood up, wobbled and grabbed the counter. Her head ached.

"Well, you rig your dice," he said. "You're a cheat and a tease, what's fair about that?"

The calm dismissal nettled her. She turned away, ransacking the pockets of her skirt for money.

"Beer," she called to the bartender.

"You shouldn't drink," Blink said. He didn't look up from the menu.

"Go to hell," she murmured, sitting.

There was a prolonged silence while Emma waited for, received and murderously contemplated her beer. It foamed cheerily, like the cheap distraction it was, which somehow only made Emma angrier. Being hungover after cardnight was a perfectly good explanation for tardiness. In fact, it was a testament to her lousy good intentions that she'd pulled herself out of bed that morning. And if he'd just _listen, _she had an even better reason for her reaction to his kiss. But no, like a true news_boy_, he didn't care if his headlines were fake, so long as they made an impression.

And so what did it matter if Blink was only another thick-headed street-rat? Had she somehow expected him to be different? Soft on the inside, maybe, like a pie? No, he was made of black eyes, dirty streets and the bravado that comes from growing up too soon just like Jack and Race. Just like Spot.

She took a rebellious drink, swishing it around in her mouth. Her stomach clenched.

"I guess it's my own fault,_"_ she lectured the beer mug, morosely. "I shoulda known better than to waste my time on a one-eyed, two-faced, _gutter_-trash, _newsboy." _

Her voice was soft and mean as she stood again. She spat her disgust onto the floor, and stalked out the door.

The sunlight shot through her eyes to the base of her head, pulsing painfully. She could feel her stomach begin to turn again and even her eyes were watering. Leaning against the alley wall, Emma cursed. She wanted to take on both Delancey brothers and beat them into oblivion. She wanted to go back to working on the docks, mindless, back-breaking labor was exactly what she needed. She wanted to unravel each one of Sarah's meticulously crocheted doilies, slowly, while Sarah watched. She wanted to throw up.

On the doilies, if at all possible.

Emma was wavering between the doilies and the Delanceys when she heard the door slam. Twisting to see behind her, she was startled by the instant proximity and intensity of Blink's body. She didn't move. He didn't touch her.

"Ooh. Big, angry newsboy," she said. "Look at me. I'm shakin'."

"You're fulla shit, Emma."

"Get offa my back, _Kid_." He was so close to her, but she couldn't focus on his body or the heat or her headache. Just the mutual anger.

"See, there's the thing, you crazy little monkey, you ain't Spot. You don't get to give _orders_."

"I'll give whatever I want. It's your own fault if you can't _handle_ it."

"For Chrissake, there ain't a newsie in town who'd let his girl talk to him like that."

"I'm not your girl, I'm not your _anything._"

"If I wasn't sure about _that_ after the two times you ran away and the fact that you'd rather be an idiot drunk than around me, what you said at Tibby's made it clear to most of Manhattan. I'm sure this whole thing is just a _waste _of your time."

"You forgot the part where you called me a cheat and a _tease,_" she said. "I got drunk. I'm a goddamn newsie!"

Sweat gathered at the base of her neck. His hair was damp with it.

"You made me look like a fool, today. I just stood there, waiting for you," he said.

"If that's what you're worried about, I got news for you. You don't need my help to look like a fool. You wear an_ eyepatch_. And what do you care, anyway? I'm sure you'll soothe your pride with another one a Medda's assistants, since clearly I'm not _doin' it_ for you."

There was a moment of silence as they both stood, evaluating each other. She watched as the anger steamed off of him, dissapating, slowly. The intensity remained. She scowled at him, fighting the urge to scratch her nose. The silence gave her time to be distracted by his body. He looked as though he'd spent the day running, or fighting. His vest was unevenly buttoned. Tension lined the muscles of his arm and neck. There was dirt smeared on his cheek.

"I've known you since you came to Manhattan. Jack likes you pretty good, the guys, too. But you don't touch 'em. Spitshake, maybe. Friendly fighting, but nothing else," he studied her.

Unimpressed, Emma lifted an eyebrow.

"Who asked you?"

"I wanna know why," he told her.

She let herself relax against the brick wall. She couldn't refuse to tell him. Not after she'd mentally read him the riot act for not listening. There was a moment of silence, then, finally:

"Brooklyn."

"Oh, come on, Conlon's bad, but-"

"Shut up, Blink. It was in Brooklyn," she said.

He shrugged, gently, clearly telling her that his conclusion was an '_honest mistake.'_ The anger had evaporated from the air, and it left nothing between them. The closeness didn't take her breath away or anything, but it was distracting.

"I was younger, it was late- dark. He was drunk and I- wasn't a newsie, then. He grabbed my wrist and I got away. But I was different, after," she stopped and looked up, coldly.

"Extra, extra," she quipped. "Read all about it."

* * *

Dear Reader,

Let me start this off by saying how much I hate author's notes. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. But I wanted anyone who's been reading this story, especially those who have stuck by me the entire way, and those who have reviewed begging me to finish or wondering if I will, to see this.

I promise you that I will finish this story. So take a deep breath, I will never abandon Emma.

That said, she needs a hell of a lot of work. I wrote this story when I was about nine or ten on a yellow legal pad. And then I hid it from myself for several years. I wrote it for the same reason any fangirl writes a Mary Sue© production: I was in love with a fictional boy and I wanted to make him mine.

I decided to rewrite the story four years ago. My freshman year of high school. And man, did I think I was god's gift to fanfiction. Since then, I've had four inspiring years of journalism, and spent time on the literary publication at my school, in addition to volunteering at the local writer's camp, and, well, reading a ton of fiction, fanfiction and other literature. I also discovered the Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test. I think the first time I ran Emma through that biyatch, she scored… well… Let's just say that we were well past 'danger' territory, and veering into the void of 'I have created a monster.'

I mean, if you want to talk about over-used plot devices, you'll find most of them in the original Such A Newsie. You'll actually still find a lot of them. Sexual assault, cannon-free romance, an inexplicably close relationship with Spot…

But I'm getting off-track.

Because the truth is, I'm absolutely in love with this story, and how it's growing and changing. When I started, Emma was a spoiled brat who ran away from home and was too proud to go back after being assaulted by a boy in an alleyway. Now she has a culture, a true motivation for leaving, and a reason for carrying the banner. That said, she has a long way to go.

I've only just realized how far.

In editing and changing (sometimes drastically) the first few chapters, I've been forced to re-evaluate the story arc, which is jumpy and fraught with plot-holes. It's just not smooth or believable enough. I'm beginning to get an idea of how it needs to change, but it's going to take time: something that I don't have right now.

To let you in on my personal life, (since it seems like I'm just going to ramble on forever, god, Joan, why aren't your chapters this long?) I'm headed off to college this year. A wonderful, liberal –arts school in Ohio, where I plan to study creative writing, Spanish and physics. If my writing has changed over the last four years of high school, I can't imagine how much improvement college will make on it. I hope that improvement will be reflected in the quality of my editing and, eventually, by the super-awesome-mega-cool-ending that I have in no way planned or conceived of, yet.

To give you an idea of what my vision is, in so far as editing, the story will be a lot shorter. I feel like there are a lot of unnecessary tangents and some serious anachronisms (Swan, as a Mexican, is not totally sensible, she should definitely be Italian, the problem being that I speak no Italian). But the pivotal change that needs to be made (as far as I'm concerned) is the scene in which Emma is assaulted. I have been staring at that chapter for about three days. It needs to be completely, com_pletely_, rewritten. I don't think any one chapter shows my childish understanding of reality more than that one. It's embarrassing.

It's also going to be shorter because, instead of the choppy, little chapters that I have now, I'm hoping to combine a lot of them into smoother, more logical chapters, which will hopefully give the entire story a more connected feel.

I'm sure you're tired of reading this, but it feels so good to address you all. I have never, in my life, finished a prose story. And it is all of you who keep me determined to give Emma a proper ending. One that doesn't make you puke with how disgustingly sweet it is, but one that also leaves you feeling a little happier about the world. Thank you all so much for putting up with me and with Emma. You have inspired my writing, and I could not be more grateful.

Love,

_Jo_

P.S. I'd still love to hear from you in reviews or private messages. It helps so much to know what the readers like and don't like, what they're expecting out of the story and where it has failed them. Every time I get a review, I come back and look at the story, and think about it a little harder, because I really, really want to do right by all of you!


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